


Like a Drug

by firefright



Series: A Different Kind of Therapy [2]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU
Genre: Angst and Porn, BDSM, Blindfolds, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 20:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10647591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright
Summary: Jason didn't mean for this thing he has with Slade to keep happening, but it still does. And now, months after the first time, he's helpless to say he's anything but addicted.





	Like a Drug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skalidra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/gifts).



> Did my hand slip and write more Arkham Knight trash with Slade and Jason? Why yes, yes it did. 
> 
> Just like its predecessor, this story dedicated to the lovely Skalidra. My Slade addiction is real, darling, and it's all your fault <3

Even Jason can admit that it was a little disturbing how quickly he had proven himself to be a liar in the aftermath of his encounter with Slade. How quickly his words— _This was just a one time thing, it won’t happen again—_ had fallen flat.

What happened between them was supposed to be a passing moment of weakness; an indulgence that never should have been. Something he could have, _should_ have, been able to shake off easily, and then never think about again. But after they had finished cleaning up and parted ways from the abandoned subway tunnel where it had taken place, Jason had gone back to his current hideout and, for the first time since the Joker took him, slept the whole night through with an ease he later found frightening upon waking.

There had been no nightmares. No bad dreams. He hadn’t twisted himself into a knot amongst the blankets the way he usually did, shaking with the memory of hard fists and burning brands, or woken up drenched in a sweat that required him to immediately take a shower and change his clothing afterwards.

Instead there had been nothing. Nothing but a comforting darkness, and though he’d tried to excuse the change through a hundred other factors at first, when it came down to it, Jason could only really think of one reason why.

It had only gotten worse when he met Slade again the next day to hear his report from the training grounds in South America. Despite his best efforts to stay focused, Jason soon found himself growing distracted at every turn. Slade’s voice was the same deep rumble it had always been, but now that sound carried different connotations — and memories — with it. When he gestured with his hands to make his point, Jason could only think of how they’d felt sliding over his skin; reaching down and into the deepest and most intimate parts of him. His voice commanding, his gaze — that piercing shade of blue that seemed to see through every defence he had — studiously watching him come apart, and then Slade…

Then Slade had stopped talking, at least for a moment, and while Jason was struggling to remember exactly what it was he said last so that he could offer a suitable response, simply shaken his head and smiled down at him.

“Are you sure this is the way you want it to be, kid?”

Jason had opened his mouth to deny he wanted anything, but then… well. 

He never has been able to look at his workbench the same way after that.

Now, three months later, and so much closer to the promised day itself, Jason can’t help shivering as he kneels on the carpeted floor of one of Slade’s safehouses in Gotham, barefoot and clad only in a pair of loose sweatpants.

How it had come to this, from one secretly sordid encounter to the next, is something of a blur. A haze of needy sensation. Jason knows that he should regret this arrangement of theirs, should stop it. He thinks about doing so every time, but he’d faltered from the first, and now he can’t seem to stop himself from sliding ever further down that slippery slope into the hell that he’s created for himself — though hell may not be quite the right word for it. 

His time with the Joker (Bruce’s fault, always Bruce’s fault), that had been hell. This on the other hand, was something entirely different.

With hungry eyes, Jason watches Slade take another sip from his wine glass. The motion is slow, relaxed, as if they have all the time in the world together; as if what’s coming two days hence may never arrive.

Just like Jason, Slade is dressed down now, wearing nothing but a plain white button-up shirt and dark slacks that are cut just right to hide the full breadth of the muscle beneath. No boots or gloves. No mask either, to cover the handsome lines of his face. The first time Jason saw Slade out of uniform had been a revelation, a glimpse of the man behind the mercenary; now, it inspires an almost pavlovian reaction in him as he strains to keep his arms positioned behind his back and not do anything Slade will make him regret.

Finally, Slade deigns to talk to him. “You’re restless tonight.”

Of course he is, Jason resists the urge to point out. These moments, these _days_ , when Jason is antsy, or irritated, vibrating with the force of all the pent up energy and emotion inside of him, are the entire reason they’re here. That’s the deal they have. Slade purges him of those emotions, stops him from shaking apart, and for a little while longer Jason is able to hold himself together as they both go about their separate business. Or at the very least until the next time Slade comes to visit rolls around.

Jason gets clarity, peace; the temporary expulsion of his demons by handing over his control — however briefly — to another, and Slade… Slade gets a good fuck out of it, he supposes, and confidence that his employer will have the focus to finish what he started. That’s what Jason _thinks_ , anyway.

“Is that a problem?” He raises his chin up, even as he clenches his hands tighter around his wrists. His submission may be the eventual goal here, but that’s still not something he can ever hand over without a fight, no matter how many times Slade has proven he’s capable of pushing him into it.

The question prompts Slade’s eye to narrow. The wine glass, now empty, is set down on the floor in front of the bed. Whereas Jason’s safehouses are places of bare necessity, Slade’s own are far more comfortable, which is part and parcel of why they started meeting here to do this rather than there. Carpeted floors, a comfortable bed, and well stocked with all the little luxuries Slade likes to enjoy on his nights off. “Why don’t you tell me, kid? And remember what was missing at the end of that sentence while you’re at it.”

Just the tone of his voice is enough to make Jason’s toes curl under him.

He licks his lips, which are dry and cracked from the cold October air outside. “Depends on what you’re planning.” He says, then almost pointedly adds, “ _Sir_.”

Slade’s footsteps are barely a whisper on the floor as he stands up and moves behind him. Jason feels his body tense in anticipation, and isn’t disappointed when a large hand clenches in his hair, dragging his head back as Slade crouches down. Hot breath washes over the rim of Jason’s ear when he speaks. “Oh no, Jason. This is about what _you’re_ planning, remember? You, the Scarecrow, and the Bat.”

Jason clenches his teeth at the reminder. “It’s fine.” he assures him, “I’m ready for that. For _him_.”

Another whisper of fabric. Now, Slade’s broad chest is resting against his back, and Jason has to fight doubly hard not to break the first commandment Slade gave him tonight: not to reach out and touch. Not until he’s earned it. Jason’s half-caught in anticipation of what that disobedience would bring, and half-desperate to please by resisting it, especially when Slade pulls him again by his hair, harder and further until Jason’s head is resting back against his shoulder. “Is that right? Tell me.”

“I’m going to kill him.” he shudders as the next rush of air passes over the brand on his cheek. “I’m going to see him dead and Gotham ruined.”

Slade’s hand clenches tighter in his hair, while its partner wraps around Jason from the front, pressing firmly in against his stomach. “And you mean it? There’s no regrets running through that pretty head of yours tonight? No lingering sentimentality over Wayne making you second guess your choices?”

Jason hisses at the first pinch of pain in his scalp, made worse when he tries to shake his head in denial. 

“None.” his words are hard as iron, as steel. He’s not falling apart this time. He just needs an edge, needs an outlet for the nervous energy tapping at his bones, and if this is a test, Jason fully intends to pass it. “He’s going to get what he deserves. They all will for abandoning me.” He clenches his teeth harder, staring up at the yellow light overhead until his eyes start to sting from its brightness. “For forgetting me.”

The glass case he found in the cave doesn’t matter. Neither does the framed photograph sitting at the foot of it. Nothing more than a lie, all of it. Just a pretty veneer to cover up the ugly truth of what Bruce was. Of what _he_ had done.

Slade hums before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the arch of Jason’s shoulder. His beard scratches over the skin there, scarred and smooth alike. It’s a reward for his conviction, even as Slade asks, “Then why are you here?”

Jason shudders and gasps at the press of teeth that follows next. He’s already hard in his pants, has been almost since the first moment Slade touched him. “Slade…”

“Say it, kid. You know the rules of this game by now. You tell me the truth before anything else, and ask me for what you want.”

He bites back a moan, trying to bow his head forward. But the grip Slade has on his hair won’t let him. “I…”

Even now it’s hard for him to say it. Slade had started enforcing this rule from the third time they’d slept together onwards, even before any of the subsequent rules came into play. Pushing Jason each time to admit his desires; to be honest rather than hide behind a sharp tongue and denial. He gets off on it, Jason thinks, on hearing him ask for what he shouldn’t. But Slade also doesn’t like him to give in so easily. He likes to have to work for it a little, the same as Jason likes to be worked for.

“N-need everything spelled out for you, huh?”

Slade sighs behind him, then the hand he has resting on Jason’s stomach is suddenly around his throat and squeezing. Jason inhales reflexively, the grip he has on his own wrists behind him breaking as his hands fly reflexively upwards, clawing at Slade’s bicep like an animal before he finds himself being shoved down onto the floor. 

He gasps, both at the impact and weight of Slade’s bulk bearing down upon him. Not only is his strength as impossibly impressive now as it always has been — a living advertisement for the unexpected perks of volunteering for military experimentation — but worse, the position can’t help but inspire a visceral flashback to the first time they fucked; Slade’s fingers shoving into his mouth in punishment for Jason snarling back at him.

The burn of the carpet against his cheek isn’t quite the same as the rough floor of the tunnel, but the way he still has to struggle to draw breath past Slade’s hand more than makes up for it.

“Say that again.” Slade says sweetly in his ear, beard scraping across his skin again. “Go on. Give me every excuse to tell you no and toss you out onto the street.”

“Y… You...” Drool slides out of his mouth when he tries to talk. There’s not enough air in Jason’s lungs for him to make words with, but despite what he just said, Slade doesn’t actually seem interested in hearing him speak.

“You come to me for this, remember? You follow my rules. Shedding that armour of yours, kneeling on my floor like a good boy.” Jason shudders at the two words in conjunction with each other. He pants like a dog, wanting them to be given to him directly, wanting that _praise_ that has always been his life’s blood and too often denied to him.

Dumb. Worthless. _Useless kid_. Those had been his terms of endearment growing up. No love, no cherishment. Just the back of a hand if he was lucky, the ring of a belt if he was not. Even before Bruce and the Joker got hold of him, Jason had scars aplenty.

With a background like that, after being betrayed by two different sets of parents twice over, was there any wonder he found himself starving for even a show of that affection now? It doesn’t matter if the man offering it to him is a ruthless mercenary, it’s what Jason _craves_.

“Sl… ade…” 

Slade squeezes his throat tighter, hard enough to white out Jason’s vision from the twisted thrill of it for a moment, if not leave bruises. Then the hold relaxes, letting him drag just enough air back into his lungs that he can talk.

“You don’t want it to be like this all night tonight, do you, kid? Not before your big day.” Slade drags thick fingers back through Jason’s hair, raking them over his scalp. “You want me to take care of you, right? Give what I have to give. So go ahead and ask me for it. Nicely.”

“I want…” he coughs a little, swallowing back the well of saliva that’s piled into his mouth. “I want…” The small violence hasn’t done anything to distill the stiffness of his cock between his legs, only enhanced it with the thrill of adrenaline, and Jason squirms now like some helpless teenager, rubbing himself against the floor in an attempt to gain friction; _any_ friction.

Slade on the other hand, is as patient as any angler while he waits him out. “Go on.”

“You.” he whispers eventually. “God damn it, Slade. You know I want…” The fingers tighten again on his throat in brief warning. Jason hiccups before correcting himself. “I—I want you to... to… _ah_ , fuck me. _Please_.”

“Crude as always.” Slade says, but he sounds pleased. Another kiss against his jaw is Jason’s reward. “But don’t worry, I know what you need. Out of your head, all right?”

When Slade’s grip on him loosens enough for him to do so, Jason nods. Those four words have an almost religious connotation to him now.

He’s not on the edge of falling apart this time. No nightmare haunted him when he woke up today, nor has his scar been itching. But still he needs this. Needs _that_. Everything he’s planned for over a year is about to come to a head, and the knowledge that he’s so close to it keeps eating at him. He’s buzzing with energy that needs an outlet; a distraction, even if just for a few hours, and he needs it before that buzzing can get any worse.

His time with Slade isn’t always a cure: sometimes it’s a preventative measure. Other times, it’s both.

The sound Slade makes this time is a thoughtful one, as if weighing his options. While he thinks, his hand gentles in Jason’s hair, though the grip he has around his throat remains firm. A collar without an actual chain.

Jason swallows hard at the thought.

“So…” he says, after a moment of dealing with that. “You actually going to do anything or…”

Slade snorts against his temple, before dragging him back up into the same kneeling position he was in before. “Stay.” Is the simple command, “Hands behind you back. You need to earn your reward before it’s given, and if you move again before I tell you to, I will make you regret it.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” 

Another snort. Then Slade is up on his feet, moving away towards a corner of the room while Jason locks his hands together again behind his back, fingers around his wrist and holding himself contained. Another rule (Jason’s own this time): they don’t use actual restraints. The one time Slade had tried to fasten handcuffs on him as part of the play Jason had reacted, _badly_ , and after all the effort it took to calm him back down, they never tried it again. 

If he can’t get out of it himself at a moment’s notice, then it doesn’t go on. The only exception to that rule is Slade’s own hands, which when they’re around him — holding Jason by his wrists or throat or hair — are warm, thrilling. He doesn’t understand why he can stand that when he can’t the cuffs or rope, but like the best of addicts, at this point Jason’s largely stopped questioning it.

What works, works. What doesn’t, doesn’t. The rest he can quite happily live without.

Which is why it surprises him so much when Slade comes back carrying a slip of red fabric in his hands.

“Slade…” Jason knows he’s tensing up as he comes closer, swallowing hard. The steady fluttering of his pulse beneath his fingers ratchets up a beat.

“Easy, kid.” Slade says calmly as he kneels again, in front of Jason this time. “This isn’t for that.”

“Then what is it for?”

His eyes track the material as Slade slides it between his fingers. Then he lifts it up, holding it against Jason’s face and letting him feel its softness. _Silk_ , he thinks, at that almost liquid glide, _it’s silk_.

Jason shudders when the fabric passes over the brand mark on his left cheek, barely tickling the sensitive edges of the scar. For Slade to have something like that, even just a single strip of it, instantly has his curiosity peaking.

“A blindfold.”

The words, innocuous enough on their own, make Jason’s heart almost stop in his chest. A blindfold? Slade wants to...

Slade doesn’t hesitate as he drops the silk away from Jason’s face. He wraps it around both hands, then strokes his thumbs along the length of the strip. “Same rules apply as always. You don’t want it, tell me now. You want it off at any time, you want _anything_ to stop at anytime, you tell me; use the safe word we agreed on. Nothing happens here that you don’t want, kid, you know that.”

Jason considers it, holding back on his initial instinct, which is to say ‘no’. “Why?”

Slade smirks at him, a relaxed curl of his lips. “Removing one sense heightens the others, Jason, you know that.” He moves his hands forwards, this time pressing the silk against the line of Jason’s throat. “I want you focused on what you can feel tonight, not what you can see.”

Jason inhales sharply at the touch. Against his throat, even the silk has a threatening edge. 

“Think you can handle that?”

Jason clenches his teeth together. Blindfolds had never been… Out of all the various tortures the Joker had used, blindfolds fall relatively low on the scale for him. They had mostly been used during the early days of his torture to disorientate him, and for dramatic effect. Once Joker had broken Jason down into his obedient puppet however, they’d become less and less common.

The thing about the clown is—was, he had been a showman. An attention whore. He _liked_ to be seen and appreciated for all his vile acts. He liked to watch as Jason panicked with the knowledge of what was coming to him; to see him squirm and flinch even when he knew it wouldn’t do any good. 

If there was one lesson Jason had learned from his time with him, it was that. The pain would come, it always did.

And because of that, because of _him_ , Jason’s not afraid of pain anymore, and the dark has always been his friend more than an enemy. A place to hide and heal, to be alone. Jason knows he can handle that; it’s whether he trusts Slade to be around him when he can’t see that’s the problem. But then, Slade has also never been anything but loyal from the moment Jason handed over his first exorbitantly priced wage cheque. Jason’s sure he won’t turn on him. Not until the job is done, anyway.

Still, it never hurts to be cautious. 

“If I need it off, it comes off.” he agrees, “ _And_ I can take it off myself if I need to. No matter what else you’ve told me to do.”

Slade’s smirk doesn’t drop, in fact it widens. “Good boy.” he praises, whether for Jason’s acceptance or for him enforcing his own conditions is debatable, but the sentiment behind them doesn’t matter half as much as the words themselves.

The silk stays at his throat as Slade leans in to kiss him, and Jason raises his head expectantly up to meet it. Like all their kisses, it can’t be called gentle. Slade’s not that sort of man. He takes Jason’s mouth like he has a right to it, like he _owns_ it, spearing his tongue in between his lips and sweeping it broadly across Jason’s own. A sentiment that should trouble him, except it’s more or less precisely what he’s here for.

Jason squeezes his wrist behind him, closing his eyes as he eagerly pushes up against the kiss. The taste of wine is strong over Slade’s tongue, rich and sour-edged, and without thinking he sucks on it, seeking to draw out more of that flavour — as well as a surprised grunt from Slade that is not at all displeased.

“Eager already.” He chuckles when they part, leaving Jason panting. “Now, let’s see if we can put that energy to good use.”

Slade leans back, the silk withdrawing with him. Despite his conviction, Jason still swallows as Slade raises his hands, but doesn’t flinch when the material moves forwards towards his face, lingering for a moment against the bridge of his nose before pressing in over his eyes. He keeps them open as Slade fastens the blindfold behind his head, fingers brushing his hair before drawing the knot closed. With the silk in place, the familiar sight of Slade’s face vanishes to be replaced by a field of red, similar in shade to the inner display of Jason’s helmet.

It’s… it’s not dark, he realises. Not entirely, and that in itself is a pleasant surprise. He should have known better than to think his sight would be removed completely; Slade always thinks of these little details in regards to their play, and to him.

It’s the kind of thoughtfulness that would be touching to Jason — that is, if he actually let himself believe it came from a place of genuine caring.

“You all right there, kid?” Slade asks him, thumb brushing against his lips now.

He manages a nod, “Yes,” then, when Slade’s fingers tighten on his jaw, adds in a “sir.” onto the end of it.

“Good.”

He gasps when Slade’s hand suddenly curls around the back of his neck, pulling him up higher onto his knees and then forward. There’s no pain, not yet, but the grip is inexorable, as is the force pushing him along. Slade offers no further words of guidance, his hand alone enough to tell Jason what to do as they move across the carpet.

Eyes still open to that scarlet field, Jason does his best to recall the layout of the apartment in front of him: large, open-plan, more of a studio with only the bathroom set behind a separate door rather than a network of rooms, which leaves a lot of options for where Slade could be leading him. He knows it’s not the bed, that would’ve been directly ahead, and their path has them veering to the left. The couch? The dining table? Before he can figure it out, Slade stops.

“Lean forward. On your hands and knees against the floor.” Slade scratches the back of Jason’s neck fondly as he scrambles to obey the order, not losing his grip for an instant despite the way Jason has to bow forwards to place his hands down. Then he lets go, stepping around him, and Jason bites his lip as he tries to concentrate on the soft sound of Slade’s feet against the floor before a creak of leather alerts him to exactly where they are.

There’s only one armchair in the room, set between the couch and the bed. One of those wingback creations made of brown leather and rich mahogany wood. Expensive, luxurious. There were similar ones in Wayne Manor back when he lived there, though those were antiques and this one is decidedly not. Slade must have sat down on it, but the strange thing is, the sound comes from Jason’s left, rather than in front of or behind him like he’d expect it to.

“Sir,” he says cautiously, “What—”

“I haven’t finished my wine yet, so you’re going to stay there, exactly like that, until I do. _And_ you’ll take anything else I do to you in the meantime without question or complaint, understand?”

Still confused by what’s happening, Jason can only nod. His obedience was guaranteed the moment he climbed in through Slade’s window, shedding his armour in more ways than one. He only needs to know what is expected of him so that he can fulfill it.

Slade doesn’t make him wait long for an answer. Barely a minute passes before a weight settles down against his back, just preceding the sound of liquid being poured into a glass from a bottle, and for a moment Jason is stunned. 

Did Slade just… has he seriously just…

The weight is Slade’s feet, he realises. His legs resting against his back. Jason’s fingers dig harder into the plush carpet beneath him, a snarl almost crossing his lips even as his mind races to figure the reasoning behind the action out — as well as resist his initial compulsion to throw Slade off him.

The first, and obvious, answer that he comes up with is that press of Slade’s legs is there to add weight and strain to the position that he has been ordered to maintain, thereby making it more challenging for Jason to keep to his command. But the parts of him that haven’t complete surrendered yet — that won’t switch off entirely until they’re much deeper into their play — knows it can’t just be that. It can’t be that simple. There has to be something more to it. 

So, after taking a deep breath to steady himself, Jason thinks again.

Slade knows that using him as something so menial as a footrest would rankle at his pride. That it would push Jason to fight back and disobey. And if he disobeys then he’ll earn himself a punishment — or worse, he’ll break the scene, which while fun for Slade, is the exact opposite of what he wants.

_You need to earn your reward before it’s given_ was what Slade had said to him, and though he can’t see it, Jason knows Slade’s eye will be on him now, reading every minute twitch of his muscles and the clench of his jaw. With that in mind, he forces himself to breath through the immediate anger that comes with the motion, to focus instead on what his obedience can bring: the memory of Slade’s hands and mouth on him, breaking him open in far more pleasant ways.

He can take this, Jason realises. Anything Slade has to give him, he can take, gladly, all for his approval.

Finally relaxing again, Jason shifts his hands and knees as much as he reasonably can to adjust for the extra pressure on his back. Slade’s heels dig in against the base of his spine, but there’s no word or sound of displeasure from him, so what he’s doing must be okay so far. The only question is, how long does Slade plan to make it last? Just how full was that bottle of wine when Jason last looked at it? He’d only seen Slade drink the one glass before, but a bottle that size was easily big enough to contain three or four. Not to mention that Slade likes to take his time when drinking, savouring the flavour with every mouthful.

Jason knows that, because this isn’t the first time Slade’s had a mind to test his patience. It is, however, the first time he’s done it in this particular way. Before Jason was always kneeling, eyes open and able to watch Slade as he ignored him. But now...

Two glasses of wine.

His muscles locked, his body unmoving, Jason dares only to flex his fingers to ease the stiffness out of them as the minutes and seconds tick by. But that freedom doesn’t ring true to the rest of his body, and with the blindfold on, Jason suddenly finds himself with a distinct lack of external stimulus to distract himself with. 

Ordinarily, such a thing would worry him, because a lack of external distraction often led to an influx of internal thought, except that doesn’t ring true this time. This time, he finds that his world narrows down not to what’s going on inside his own mind, but to what he can feel instead — just as Slade told him it would. The press of feet against his back, the thick carpet supporting his hands and knees. The growing ache in the rest of his joints and muscles as he works to stay completely stationary. _Pain,_ but not like what he would expect from a blade or a fist.

What it is, he realises, is an acute awareness of his own body; every trembling muscle from his wrists to his shoulders, neck, back, and then down to his knees. As time goes on, Jason swears he can even hear the thundering beat of his own heart in his ears; a sound complimented by the slow, heavy rhythm of his breathing. 

(And between his legs, there’s the stiff heavy weight of his cock, flushed with heat and arousal that hasn’t gone away despite the lack of direct stimulation to it.)

How long he remains like that, waiting, Jason doesn’t know. Caught up in the wave of feeling from his own body, he completely loses track of time, despite having training to stop exactly this type of scenario from happening. It could minutes, could be hours. All Jason knows is that he’s almost floating by the end of it, sinking deeper down into himself, until — almost out of nowhere — the weight of Slade’s legs suddenly vanishes from his back.

Disorientated, he’s not ready for the foot that pushes against the side of his rib cage, gentle but firm, and after forcing his limbs to to stay locked in the same position for so long, Jason couldn’t fight that push even if he wanted to. He hits the floor, and cries out loud as the blood starts to rush in through his cramped muscles, his arms and legs instinctively trying to curl in on themselves.

Now the pain is sharper. A swarm of stinging bees that delve into the spaces between Jason’s bones as he shakes through it. The sensation is sudden, intense, and leaves him gasping as he tries to flex his hands and feet to work himself through the feeling. “S—Slade, you...”

A low chuckle betrays Slade’s reaction. Then Jason feels one large hand cup the side of his head before Slade’s thumb brushes over his cheek, the motion deceptively tender as it cuts off the rest of the words he meant to say (which is probably a good thing).

“Easy now...” Slade rumbles, his voice far enough away from Jason to indicate that he’s only stretched his arm down to reach him and not actually left the chair. “You did well there, kid. Almost a full hour with no movement. I must say I’m impressed. What about you,” his fingers move to curl beneath Jason’s chin, lifting his head up so that it’s presumably facing him, “do you think that deserves a reward?”

Jason licks his lips, which feel dry and cracked. He’s still not altogether with it, still caught off-guard by Slade’s sudden change of tactics, and because of that, he unthinkingly says, “Y-yes. Yes, sir, please, I—”

It’s the wrong answer.

"And why is that?" Slade asks, setting the wine glass in his other hand down with a clink on the nearby side table. "For doing what you were told to? Is that worth reward, boy? Should I expect you to behave only when you know you're going to be rewarded for it?"

Jason realises what he’s done far too late to save himself. In their game, it’s not his place to determine if and when he’s earned his reward, only Slade’s, and he swallows hard as that hand tightens around in his jaw, followed by its partner settling in his hair. Slade hasn’t given him permission to move otherwise yet, so Jason strains to keep his hands still; a feat roughly equivalent to the climbing of Mount Everest in this moment. 

“I—no, I…”

“What’s that?” 

Jason breathes in hard through his nose. He wants to see, he wants — but that’s not where they’re at yet. Not unless he wants to end this prematurely. Still, his body might obey, but his tongue soon betrays him again. “Fuck no, Slade… but, you asked, you said I’d—”

“Done a good job?” Slade tutts at him, “I did, and now you’re _un_ doing it. It’s always that mouth of yours getting you into trouble, isn’t it, boy?”

Jason groans as his hair is tugged, a sound that is not entirely one of pain. This time he manages to bite down on any smartass comment. “Yes, sir.” 

Slade grunts, “Lucky for you, then, that I can think of much better uses for it. And if you do a good enough job, I may even still reward you later.” He nudges Jason again, this time with his foot. “Get back up on your knees, and put your hands behind your back again. _Now._ ”

Jason groans as he forces himself to obey. Muscles still aching, body protesting as he moves his arms behind his back and wraps one hand around its opposing wrist. The position is comfortable in its familiarity, a solid reminder that in restraining himself, this encounter is still in his power to continue or end at any time.

“Sir?” he gulps as he’s guided forwards on his knees, until he feels his shoulders being bracketed in between Slade’s strong thighs. He can’t see his face, but he can only imagine the man is smiling as he strokes his hand back through Jason’s hair.

“You know what to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Actual porn will be in the next chapter, I promise)


End file.
